Authors: Ted Dawe
HAVING NO CAR and a poor sense of direction I had to take a taxi to Karen’s place. The price was a real body blow to
someone
desperately saving money. I resolved to walk home. Her parents’ house was set back from the road, up a long curving driveway. It had big pillars holding up a massive porch by the front door. I remembered thinking ‘appointment with royalty’ when I rang the doorbell. Through the stained glass I could see a feminine outline approaching. It was Karen’s mother … she looked more like an older sister.
‘Yes? Ahh of course … it’s Trace, isn’t it? How lovely! Won’t you come in? Karen’s in the bath. I’m Helena. Come and meet Raymond.’
They reckon that you should look closely at your girlfriend’s mother because that is usually what she is going to look like 20 years down the track. Well, the look wasn’t too bad, I thought. Yeah, I could live with that.
There was this man sitting at one of those huge old desks, those ones with all the little shelves and drawers. It looked as if it weighed half a ton and was hundreds of years old.
He seemed older than Helena: balding, stooped, with those funny little half-glasses on the end of his nose. We both stood there for a while, awkwardly – he was adding up a row of
figures
– then he turned, looking me over carefully, like I was a specimen.
‘So you’re Trace?’
I nodded.
‘Where are you from, Trace?’
I told him and he nodded his head like this was really
important
information.
‘And what do your parents do there?’
‘My dad’s a butcher and my mum helps in the shop
sometimes
.’
A faint smile briefly flickered at the corners of his mouth.
‘And you, Trace, what are your plans?’
‘I haven’t got any really, I guess buying a motorbike is pretty high on my list.’
We stared at each other for a few minutes – he seemed to have run out of questions – then he barked ‘Great!’ and went back to his sums. The interview was over.
I felt Helena’s hand on my arm as she led me back through to the sitting room. It was a big square room with dark
panelling
, a wall of books and these paintings, each with dinky little lights positioned over them.
She saw me staring.
‘Which do you like, Trace?’
There was this one that looked as if it had been painted by some dude who was whacked out of his skull. It was of a room, but the walls and furniture were all over the place at crazy angles.
‘That one.’
‘Good choice. It’s a Clairmont.’
‘
So what
?’ I thought.
‘Are you interested in the fine arts, Trace?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’
She cleared her throat. ‘So what
are
your interests?’
I thought about it for a moment and then I said, ‘I guess the art I like is done by mechanics, or bodywork guys. I like the look of a car or bike that’s been worked, that means the business, that looks
like it’s breaking the sound barrier when it’s standing still.’
She didn’t seem to know how to answer that. I guess it wasn’t the answer that she was looking for.
‘So, tell me about your home.’
‘You mean the place I’m living at?’
‘No, I mean the place you come from.’
I was disappointed. She wanted to slot me too. Even though she and Raymond were quite different – she lively and frothy, he reserved and stiff – they couldn’t help themselves.
At last Karen showed up. What a relief. She was dressed in tight jeans and a white blouse. Her hair was loose, tumbling down past her shoulders. I knew immediately why, against all my instincts, I had walked into this ordeal. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I thought she was pretty at work but here, it was like she had turned into something else.
Helena poured out white wine into these long glasses for everyone. I couldn’t believe the look of the stems … they didn’t seem strong enough to support the size of the bowl. My fingers and thumb kept locking on each side of mine, testing it, like you would a twig.
The wine was cold and dry and refreshing. I was thirsty. I skulled mine in two hits then got a refill. A couple of glasses later everyone seemed to be loosening up.
‘You certainly seem to like the wine, Trace!’ Helena said.
‘Well I’ve never been much into it. I had it figured for old people’s drink … but this is nice.’ I held my glass out for
another
refill.
Raymond appeared.
‘Ah! The king’s come out of the counting house,’ I said. I thought this was quite a witty remark, but the other two seemed to wince. It must have been about this time that I snapped the
thin stem of my glass, sending the contents into my lap. Helena jumped up like it was some sort of disaster. Like I was on fire. She insisted that I come out to the kitchen and sponge down.
By the time we had dinner I wasn’t hungry any more.
Raymond
claimed that the wine had run out but I figured it had just run out for me. Karen asked me to retell the story of the street kid. It seemed a boring story to me now so I spiced it up a bit, anything to get them to chill, to climb down, to see me as me. At one point I tucked my foot over my thigh. I noticed that I must have slipped my shoes off at some stage. When had that happened? Those socks sure smelled cheesy.
Everything was a blur from that point. I was properly smashed and maybe a bit loud. I can vaguely remember being put to bed in the sun room. Mind you by this stage I couldn’t have found the front gate, let alone my way home. Some time during the night I awoke long enough to find that I had vomited on my pillow. I stared through the gloom at a mirror opposite the bed. My face seemed to be bathed in a green glow. It must have been at about five a.m. that I finally woke. The room stank of vomit. Apart from the pillow and sheets it seemed to be mostly on the clothes I had gone to sleep in. My head felt as though it had been in a hot vice all night. It pulsed. I had a red sore spot, a bit like a rash, on my back. Then, as I struggled to view it in the mirror, I saw the cause lying on the bed. I had slept on a hair brush … the rash was bristle marks. I knew I had made a
complete
arse of myself; all I could do was to try to limit the damage.
I stripped the bed and went looking for a washing machine. I planned to throw the pillowcases, sheets and my clothes into the machine and wait around until it had finished. But then what? A cheerful chat? I knew I couldn’t face that so I stuffed all the sharp-smelling sheets into the pillowcase and set off on foot.
The walk home took nearly two hours. When I had thrown every scrap of clothing and bedding into Mrs Jacques’ washing
machine
, it was time to go to work. I hoped the second walk would burn off my hangover. It didn’t. I stalked into my mixing bay and pretended to be busy. Richard and Jason turned up at the usual time but this time without Karen. I knew then, if any further proof was needed, that every aspect of the evening had been a disaster. I had made the giant leap from hero to zero in one tiny step. Depressed, as well as feeling ill, I felt the day stretch before me like an uncrossable expanse. The torture of hearing Jason and Richard wittering on only made things worse.
Jason: ‘If a galvanised clasp falls in the desert, does it make a sound?’
Richard: ‘Sounds are only weak evolutionary excuses to justify the existence of ears. Ugly things, ears. You notice birds and aliens don’t have them.’
Jason: ‘Birds have them. They just don’t stick out like yours.’
Richard: ‘That must be why you never see a bird wearing glasses.’
Jason: ‘Ear ear!’
Richard: ‘Take Van Gogh’s ear for instance.’
Jason: ‘Which one are you offering? Attached or
detached
?’
Richard: ‘The one he sent to Gauguin maybe. Hey what did Gauguin say when he got a package from Van Gogh?’
Jason: ‘’Ello! What ’ave we ’ere?’
At about this stage I gave up and told Bob Bryant that I was feeling ill. The flu I thought. I must have looked pretty bad because he sent me off without a second thought. I was home by midday and fell asleep almost straight away.
The following day I was feeling better but decided I couldn’t go back to work yet. I was too shamed. I hung around the house reading and sleeping. Mrs Jacques didn’t like this one little bit and made no bones about telling me. If I was going to ‘lie around like some member of the great unemployed’ then I had better start looking for alternative accommodation because that was not the kind of place she ran here. ‘No sir.’ This was a ‘respectable house’.
I was in a foul mood anyway and this did nothing to improve it. I longed to make a few remarks about her and Sergei and what they could do with their house, but something stopped me. I guess it must have been Devon. I knew that underneath it all things would be OK when he returned.
But where was he? He had been gone for a week now. He had stepped out of my life as suddenly and as unexpectedly as he had stepped into it. I had put myself in that position of relying on another person and now this was the price.
The only way around it was to go back to work and bury
myself
in paint tinting and lunch room discussion. My boss, Bob, didn’t seem to mind the fact that I’d had a few days off but Dave went on and on. How he had to carry me … I was letting the team down … it was all right for me … when he was starting out it would have meant the sack … all this with scatterings of ‘Mouldy old dough’ and ‘Ode to Billy-Joe’.
At smoko the topic was the declining standard of youth today and what it was like in their day.
In summary:
Today’s youth don’t know how lucky they are.
In the old days a good kick up the arse fixed most things.
The world’s going to hell in a handcart.
THERE WAS A TAP at the window.
Shit! It was Devon.
‘Open up man!’
I opened the casement window and extended my hand.
The top of a black plastic rubbish bag was placed in it.
‘Take this!’
I hauled it up. It was quite heavy … about 15 kilos or so. Then I pulled Devon up onto the window ledge.
He sat there getting his breath back for a moment and then lit up a smoke.
‘What’s happening, man?’ I asked. ‘Where’ve you come from?’
Devon grinned and sat there for a while enjoying my
confusion
.
His white, if kind of crooked, teeth showed up against his olive skin.
‘What do you think’s in the bag?’
I looked at it, then picked it up again, jiggling it, trying to pick the weight. ‘Well, let me guess … your clothes?’
‘Nope. Try again.’
‘Money?’
‘Good as.’
‘Can I look?’
‘Be my guest.’
I unwound the thick gaffer tape around the neck of the bag and opened the top.
There was the overpowering, composty smell of drying
vegetation. Because of the huge quantity, it took me a few
moments
to realise what it was. It was dak. Masses of it. I couldn’t believe how much there was. The most I’d ever seen was an ounce bag.
‘Shit a brick. Marijawacky. Are you into horticulture?’
‘I’ve always had a soft spot for whores and their culture.’
There were going to be no straight answers tonight.
‘True?’
‘Do you want the truth?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘Call me old-fashioned … I like to just touch base with the truth every now and then so I have some idea of reality.’
He shook his head and gave me a pitying look. Like I had no imagination.
‘Weeell it’s like this.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Would you believe … that I carry this stash around for my own personal use, Your Honour?’
‘Young man, that must be a shitload of big doobies.’
‘Shall we adjourn for a cup of tea?’
‘Adjournment granted, but we’ll have to be quiet. Mrs Jacques has been a bit intense recently.’
I tiptoed out to the kitchen and went about making a pot of tea. Mrs Jacques’ light was still on so I assumed that she wouldn’t wake up too terrified if she heard me in the kitchen. As I waited for the jug to boil I found I was trying to suppress my giggling. I was so excited that anything would set me off. Mrs Jacques’ apron, my grinning face caught in the reflection of the kitchen window … it was like I was stoned already just from looking in the bag. When I came back in Devon had rolled a thick joint
that looked like a 20 dollar cigar. He stretched out on my bed with this obscene spliff sticking out the middle of his mouth, legs crossed, hands behind his head. The picture of relaxation. I quickly closed the door. It was understood that we were about to imbibe. The story was going to be slow coming. Devon loved the long twisting yarn.
‘OK. Did you know that I had an assignment as a stringer based at the Whangarei Polytech?’
‘What’s a stringer?’
‘A sort of local agent to feed back news to the big paper. Anyway I get this story … a chance to go with the cops up in the hills behind Whangarei.’
He changed his tone of voice and went into newsreader mode.
‘I was given the assignment to cover the operation which has become….’ he raised an eyebrow in mock seriousness, ‘as I am sure you are aware …
a major PR exercise.
The police and the government collaborate in this to convince
a disbelieving world
that not only are they doing something about dope, but … an unbelievable but … but, they are making real progress
clipping back
N.Z.’s biggest horticultural money earner.’
‘You sound as though you could have gone to
60 Minutes
with this one.’
‘Oh I could have, but there was much to be done, you know, putting names and faces in the story, first person colour. And something even more important.’
He paused, waiting for a response.
‘Such as?’
‘A ride in a helicopter.’
‘OK. OK. That, I can relate to.’
‘We had this big grid map and we were out to spot the patches in the early summer period when the foliage of the
dope plant is clearly paler than the native bush. I was on the left hand side and they had another spotter on the right. The pilot had a cop in the front whose main job was to spot and record our findings.’
I was amazed that he would stoop that low – even if there was a helicopter ride involved. ‘So you’re now an official
spotter
for the feds?’
‘Yeah, a bit ironic considering how much of the stuff I’ve inhaled over the years. Which reminds me….’ He pulled the joint out from behind his ear, lit up, then took a monster whack on the end. The tip must have glowed for a full 30 seconds.
‘Careful Devon, it will come out the soles of your feet.’
He gave an involuntary snort. The smoke shot out from every orifice.
‘Toke?’ He asked in a high-pitched voice as he tried to hold his breath.
‘Thanks,’ I squeaked back, mimicking.
Devon breathed out and continued. ‘Well, in part of the limitless jungle I spotted this thick dope patch. I held off calling out
dak attack
, our code word for the day, to see how long it took the others.’
Devon stared vacantly into space for a period. I guessed he was replaying the incident in his dope-addled brain. I nudged him back into action.
‘To cut a long story short … thanks …’ (taking back the joint) ‘… we flew … or chopped our way South … no one recorded anything. Now what made this more interesting was that we were quite close to the main road. And the patch …’ he took another puff ‘… and the patch was close to … the turn-off to Dargaville.’
‘So you made a mental note. And then sneaked back and hacked it all down,’ I said.
‘Right and wrong. I snuck back and hacked out one plant, bush, tree, call it what you will.’
‘Why only one? Shit, this is quite strong.’
‘In another month it will turn your brain to jelly.’
‘True? Why only one plant?’
‘Good question. I was hoping you might ask me that.’
Devon lay back on the bed and looked at the ceiling for a while. And then almost immediately closed his eyes and went to sleep. I studied him. We were the same age but Devon was painfully skinny. He ate like a horse but never put on weight. Mind you, he did smoke incessantly. Why had my life been so dull since he had been away? He was trouble. He was
unpredictable
. He was out of control. But more than all of this, he was essential.
The next thing I knew there was this Bang! Bang! Bang! at the door. It was Mrs Jacques and she was highly pissed. The last thing I had done before I dropped off into Wonderland was to pull the chest of drawers in front of the door. I didn’t want any embarrassing discoveries. Devon was still so out of it, he hadn’t heard anything. The big black plastic bag was in the middle of the floor and the room stank of chopped vegetation.
‘Trace, what’s the matter? Why won’t this door open? Who’s in there with you? Why aren’t you going to work?’
The questions came at me like machine-gun fire. I leapt up, my mind in a mad panic as I rushed around, trying to hide
incriminating
evidence. I threw the bag out the window. When I staggered over, hauled the drawers back and opened the door, her eyes were shiny and she was jumping from foot to foot as if the floor was red hot. ‘What’s going on, Trace? Who’s there? What’s that smell?’
When someone else has really lost it there is a bit of time to play with. I let her work it out of her system for a while. I felt like patting her on the head but restrained myself. No point in pushing my luck. With a smile I pulled the door open, showing the sleeping Devon and the room in its usual mess.
‘What’s the panic? Nothing unusual!’
‘When did Devon get here?’
‘In the middle of the night. I’m taking the day off. He’s been tramping and has stunk the room out with his bush smell.’
I had this slightly outraged tone of voice. I was amazed at my own inventiveness. She was starting to back off. I didn’t want her nosing around. Devon was bound to have left that jumbo joint to smoulder out on the carpet.
‘Smells fishy to me,’ she said, but went back to the kitchen.
I could hear sniggering behind me and saw Devon’s form jerking away in fits of laughter under the covers. He had just been faking, letting me handle it by myself. I was a bit pissed off. Thinking on my feet is not what I do best. That was his area.
‘Where’s the dope bag?’ he asked, sounding a bit edgy for once.
‘Sergei put it out for the rubbish truck,’ I answered in an off-hand sort of way.
That made him sit up fast. I pointed out the window. ‘It’s out there. You’re going to have find some secure place to hide it. Somewhere that won’t stink the house out.’
‘I know that,’ he replied, grabbing his keys and levering himself out the window. He scooped up the bag and put it in the boot of his car. When he turned around he found himself face to face with August. They had some sort of conversation, August in his grey shorts, red blazer and cap. The image of a little private school boy. They both walked up onto the verandah
together. When August had gone into Sergei’s practice room, Devon told me that he wanted to know what was in the bag.
‘What’d you tell him?’
‘Grass clippings.’ He raised his finger as though teaching a lesson. ‘Never lie unnecessarily, remember. “The truth shall set you free”.’ He had this Sunday school teacher’s voice on.
I shook my head at him. ‘If you’re not careful the truth will lock you up.’